“In the very shadow of the Wall the wildlings made ready, winding thick coils of hempen rope around one shoulder and down across their chests, and lacing on queer boots of supple doeskin. The boots had spikes jutting from the toes; iron, for Jarl and two others, bronze for some, but most often jagged bone. Small stone-headed hammers hung from one hip, a leathern bag of stakes from the other. Their ice axes were antlers with sharpened tines, bound to wooden hafts with strips of hide. The eleven climbers sorted themselves into three teams of four; Jarl himself made the twelfth man. ‘Mance promises swords for every man of the first team to reach the top,’ he told them, his breath misting in the cold air. ‘Southron swords of castle-forged steel. And your name in the song he’ll make of this, that too. What more could a free man ask? Up, and the Others take the hindmost!”

p. 407 of ll77, Book Three of the quadrilogy

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"If you try to turn toward it, you go against it."

“Bolton’s silence was a hundred more times threatening than Vargo Hoat’s slobbering malevolence. Pale as morning mist, his eyes concealed more than they told. Jaime misliked those eyes. They reminded him of the day at King’s Landing when Ned Stark found him seated on the Iron Throne. The Lord of Dreadfort finally pursed his lips and said, ‘You have lost a hand.’

‘No,’ said Jaime. ‘I have it here, hanging round my neck.’

Roose Bolton reached down, snapped the cord, and flung the hand at Hoat. ‘Take this away. The sight of it offends me.’”

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"If you try to turn toward it, you go against it."

Yes I like his use of language in general, of course I’m always a sucker for a tale of the North (e.g., Winterfell), where I grew up, and miss desperately.

Medieval representations such as these are also illustrative of our sad origins with regard to lack of respect for gender and ethnicity, a history of which we do well in my opinion to continue to take note, even if only in fiction:

“’You’re the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen,’ he told Brienne, ‘but don’t think I can’t make you uglier. You want a nose like mine? Fight me, and you’ll get one. And two eyes, that’s too many. One scream out of you, and I’ll pop one out and make you eat it, and then I’ll pull your f*ing teeth out one by one.’

‘Oh, do it, Rorge,” pleaded Shagwell. ‘Without her teeth, she’ll look just like my dear old mother.' He cackled. ‘And I always wanted to f* my dear old mother up the arse.’

Jaime chuckled. ‘There’s a funny fool. I have a riddle for you, Shagwell. Why do you care if she screams. Oh, wait, I know.’ He shouted, ‘SAPPHIRES,’ as loudly as he could.

Cursing, Rorge kicked his stump again. Jaime howled. I never knew there was such agony in the world, was the last thing he remembered thinking. It was hard to say how long he was gone, but when the pain spit him out, Urswyck was there, and Vargo Hoat himself. ‘Thee’th not to be touched,’ the goat screamed, spraying spittle all over Zollo. ‘Thee hath to be a maid, you foolth! Thee’th worth a bag of thappireth!”

Of course the dark humor doesn't hurt my feelings either!

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"If you try to turn toward it, you go against it."